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‘Twas the night before solstice and all through the co-op
Not a creature was messing the calm status quo up.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Dreaming of lentils and warm whole-grain breads.

We’d welcomed the winter that day after school
By dancing and drumming and burning the Yule,
A more meaningful gesture to honor the planet
Than buying more trinkets for Mom or Aunt Janet,

Or choosing a tree just to murder and stump it
And dress it all up like a seasonal strumpet.
My lifemate and I, having turned down the heat,
Slipped under the covers for a well-deserved sleep,

When from out on the lawn there came such a roar
I fell from my futon and rolled to the floor.
I crawled to the window and pulled back the latch,
And muttered, “Aw, where is that Neighborhood Watch?”

I saw there below through the murk of the night
A sleigh and eight reindeer of nonstandard height.
At the reins of that sleigh sat a mean-hearted knave
Who treated each deer like his personal slave.

I’d seen him before in some ads for car loans,
Plus fast food and soft drinks and cellular phones.
He must have cashed in from his mercantile chores,
Since self-satisfaction just oozed from his pores.

He called each by name, as if he were right
To treat them like humans, entrenching his might:
“Now Donder, now Blitzen,” and other such aliases,
Showing his true Eurocentrical biases.

With a snap of his fingers away they all flew,
Like lumberjacks served up a plate of tofu.
Up to the rooftop they carried the sleigh
(The holes in the shingles are there to this day).

Out bounded the man, who sent straight to the flue.
I knew in an instant just what I should do.
After donning my slippers, downstairs did I dash
to see this trespasser emerge from the ash.

His clothes were all covered with soot, but of course,
From our wood-fueled alternative energy source.
Through the grime I distinguished the make of his duds–
He was dressed all in fur, fairly dripping with blood.

“We’re a cruelty-free house!” I proclaimed with such heat
He was startled and tripped on the logs at his feet.
He stood back up dazed, but with mirth in his eyes.
It was then that I noticed his unhealthy size.

He was almost as wide as when standing erect,
A lover of fatty fried foods, I suspect.
But that wasn’t all to make sane persons choke:
In his teeth sat a pipe that was belching out smoke!

I could scarcely believe what invaded our house.
This carcinogenic and overweight louse
Was so red in the face from his energy spent,
I expected a heart attack right there and then.

Behind him he toted a red velvet bag
Full to exploding with sinister swag.
He asked, “Where is your tree?” with a face somewhat long.
I said, “Out in the yard, which is where it belongs.”

“But where will I put all the presents I’ve brought?”
I looked at him squarely and said, “Take the lot
“To some frivolous people who think that they need
to succumb to the sickness of commerce and greed,

“Whose only joy comes from the act of consuming,
Thus sending the stock of the retailers booming.”
He blinked and said, “Ho, ho, ho! But you’re kidding.”
I gave him a stare that was stern and forbidding.

“Surely children need something with which to have fun?
It’s like childhood’s over before it’s begun.”
He looked in my eyes for some sign of assent,
But I strengthened my will and refused to relent.

“They have plenty of fun,” I cut to the gist,
“And your mindless distractions have never been missed.
“They take CPR so that they can save lives,
And go door-to-door for the used clothing drives.

“They recycle, renew, reuse — and reveal
For saving the planet a laudable zeal.
“When they padlock themselves to a fence to protest
Against nuclear power, we think they’re the best.”

He said, “But they’re children — lo, when do they play?”
I countered, “Is that why you’ve driven your sleigh,
“To bring joy to the hearts of each child and tot?
All right, open your bag; let’s see what you’ve got.”

He sheepishly did as I’d asked and behold!
A Malibu Barbie in a skirt made of gold.
“You think that my girls will like playing with this,
An icon of sexist, consumerist kitsch?

“With it’s unnatural figure and airheaded grin,
This trollop makes every girl yearn to be thin,
“And take up fad diets and bingeing and purging
Instead of respecting her own body’s urging

“To welcome the shape that her body has found
And rejoice to be lanky, short, skinny, or round.”
Deep in his satchel he searched for a toy,
Saying, “This is a hit with most little boys.”

And what did he put in my trembling hand
But a gun from the BrainBlaster Power Command!
“It’s a ‘hit,’ to be sure,” I sneered in his face,
“And a plague to infect the whole human race!

“How ’bout grenades or some working bazookas
To turn all of our kids into half-wit palookas?”
I seized on his bag just to see for myself
The filth being spread by this odious elf.

An Easy-Bake Oven — ah, goddess, what perfidy!
To hoodwink young girls into household captivity!
Plus an archer play set with shafts that fly out,
The very thing needed to put your eye out.

And toy metal tractors, steam shovels, and cranes
For tearing down woodlands and scarring the plains,
Plus “games” like Monopoly, Pay Day, Tycoon,
As if lessons in greed can’t start up too soon.

And even more weapons from BrainBlastersCo.,
Like cannons and nunchucks and ray guns that glow.
That’s all I could find in his red velvet sack —
Perverseness and mayhem to set us all back.

(But I did find one book that caused me to ponder —
Some fine bedtime tales by a fellow named Garner.)
“We need none of this,” I announced in a huff,
“No ‘business-as-usual’ holiday stuff.

“We sow in our offspring more virtue than this.
Your ‘toys’ offer some things they never will miss.”
The big man’s expression was a trifle bereaved
As he shouldered his pack and got ready to leave.

“I pity the kids who grow up around here,
Who’re never permitted to be of good cheer,
“Who aren’t allowed leisure for leisure’s own sake,
But must fret every minute — it makes my heart break!”

“Enough histrionics! Don’t pity our kids
If they don’t do as Macy’s or Toys ‘R’ Us bids.
“They live by their principles first and foremost
And know what’s important,” to him did I boast.

“Pray, could I meet them” “Oh no, they’re not here.
They’re up on the roof, liberating your deer!”
Then Santa Claus sputtered and pointed his finger
But, mad as he was, he had no time to linger.

He flew up the chimney like smoke from a fire,
And up on the roof I heard voices get higher.
I ran outside the co-op to see him react
To my children’s responsible, kindhearted act.

He chased them away, and disheartened, dismayed,
He rehitched his reindeer (who’d docilely stayed).
I watched with delight as he scooted off then.
He’d be too embarrassed to come back again.

But with parting disdain, do you know what he said,
When this overweight huckster took off in his sled?
This reindeer enslaver, this exploiter of elves?
“Happy Christmas to all, but get over yourselves!!”

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Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual
Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place of residence, kinetic activity
was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential, including the
species of domestic rodent known as Mus Musculus.

Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood
burning caloric apparatus pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding
an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among whose folkloric
appellations is the honorific title of Saint Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective
accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations
of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebrums.

My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings were
about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the
exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance
that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for
the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this
fenestration. Noting hereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected
as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation, might be
said to rival that of the solar meridian itself. Thus permitting my incredulous
optical sensory organs to behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance,
drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer.

Piloted by a minuscule aged chauffer so ebullient and nimble that it
became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller.

With his ungulate motive power traveling at what may have been more
vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly,
expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each
of the octet by his or her respective cognomen: “Now Dasher, now Dancer”,
et al..

Guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which
structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the
32 cloven pedal extremities. As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile
location, and was performing a 180 degree pivot, our distinguished visitant
achieved — with utmost celerity and via a downward leap — entry by the
way of the smoke passage.

He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebon residue from
oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on the walls thereof.
His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora
of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.
His orbs were scintillating with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary
dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability.

The capillaries of his molar regions and nasal protuberance were engorged
with blood which suffused in subcutaneous layers, the former approximating
the coloration of Albion’s floral emblem, the later that of the Prunus
Avium, or Sweet Cherry.

His amusing sub- and supra-labials resembled nothing so much as a common
loop knot, and their ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small
tabular and columnar crystals being.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose gray
fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of
a decorative seasonal circlet of holly.

His visage was wider than it was high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful,
his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the manner of pectinous fruit
syrup in a hemispherical container.

He was, in short, neither more or less than obese, jocund, multigenarian
gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me visibly frolicsome despite
every effort to refrain from so being.

By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head
to one side he indicated that trepidation on my part was groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the afore-mentioned
hosiery with various of the afore-mentioned articles of merchandise extracted
from his afore-mentioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle.

Upon completion of his task, he executed an abrupt about face, placed
a singular manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ,
inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith
effected his egress by renegotiating, in reverse, the smoke passage.

He propelled himself in short vector onto his conveyance, directed a
musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered
quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto
observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed.

But I overheard his parting exclamation, audibly immediately prior to
his vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility:

“Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self-same
assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly
pleasurable period between sunset and dawn!”

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‘Twas the night before Christmas
Old Santa was pissed
He cussed out the elves
and threw down his list
Miserable little brats
ungrateful little jerks
I have good mind to scrap the whole works
I’ve busted my ass for damn near a year
Instead of “Thanks Santa”
what do I hear
The old lady bitches cause I work late at night
The elves want more money
The reindeer all fight
Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids
Donna is pregnant and Vixen has AIDS
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those assholes from IRS sent me a letter
They say I owe taxes
if that ain’t damn funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money
And the kids these days
they all are the pits
They want the impossible
Those mean little shits
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls…
Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo’s
No request for them
They want computers and robots…
they think I’m IBM!
If you think that’s bad…
just picture this
Try holding those brats…
with their pants full of piss
They pull on my nose
they grab at my beard
And if I don’t smile…
the parents think I’m weird
Flying through the air…
dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I’m quitting this job…
there’s just no enjoyment
I’ll sit on my fat ass and draw unemployment
There’s no Christmas this year…
now you know the reason
I found me a blonde…
I’m going South for the season!!

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‘Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house,
Every creature was hurtin’, even the mouse.
The toys were all broken, their batteries dead;
Santa passed out, with some ice on his head.
Wrapping and ribbons just covered the floor, while
Upstairs the family continued to snore.
And I in my T-shirt, new Reeboks and jeans,
I went into the kitchen and started to clean.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the sink to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the curtains, and threw up the sash.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a little white truck, with an oversized mirror.
The driver was smiling, so lively and grand;
The patch on his jacket said “U.S. POSTMAN.”
With a handful of bills, he grinned like a fox
Then quickly he stuffed them into our mailbox.
Bill after bill, after bill, they still came.
Whistling and shouting he called them by name:
“Now Dillard’s, now Broadway’s, now Penny’s and Sears
Here’s Robinson’s, Levitz’s and Target and Mervyn’s.
To the tip of your limit, every store, every mall,
Now charge away–charge away–charge away all!”
He whooped and he whistled as he finished his work.
He filled up the box, and then turned with a jerk.
He sprang to his truck and he drove down the road,
Driving much faster with just half a load.
Then I heard him exclaim with great holiday cheer,
“Enjoy what you got. . . . . .you’ll be paying all year!”

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‘Twas the night before Cat-mas and all through MY house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…(I ate it).
My kitty stocking was hung by the cat door with care,
In hopes that Santa Claws soon would be there;
The humans were nestled all snug in their beds,
While we cats in the darkness danced on their heads;
Big Owner in his “sleepy’s”, and me his loyal cat,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,
When out in the ‘hood there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to four paws to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Eating curtains and shades (I threw up the sash).
The street lamp outside shined eerily below,
Maybe two cats fighting? Paw to paw, blow-by-blow?
No, wait! What my sharp kitty eyes should detect,
But a miniature cat box, and that Devonshire Rex.
A little old driver, all hairy with paws,
I knew in an instant it must be Santa Claws.
More rapid than hairballs his coursers they came,
And he howled, he meowed, he called them by name;
“Now, BOMBAY! now, BIRMAN! RAGDOLL and BURMESE!
On, PIXIE-BOB! on KORAT! on, PERSIAN and SIAMESE!
To the top of the fence! To the top of the tree!
My felines are awaiting, they are all purring!”
As dry heaves that before the wild furballs fly,
When he meets with an obstacle, they jump to the sky,
So over my shingles the kitties they flew,
With the carriage full of cat morsels, and Santa Claws too.
With a turn of my ear, I heard on the roofpole
The scratching and clawing of each kitty’s sole.
I drew in my head, and was spinning around,
When through the cat door Santa Claws did abound.
A long hair in fur, of course, from head to foot,
And his hairs were all shiny, well coiffured, nicely put.
A bundle of cat toys he had flung on his back,
You’d swear he was pedigree just him with his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! His whiskers how bold!
His cheek hairs so soft, his nose…oh, how cold!
He shed not a hair, each strand in its place
The most famous of all of the proud feline race.
The stump of some cat nip he held tight in his teeth,
Its aroma encircling his head like a wreath;
An imposing cat with the biggest belly in history,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of Friskies.
A grimalkin of breed, a right jolly old cat!
Did I say grimalkin, how could I think that!
A twitch of the whisker and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He mewed not a sound, but went straight to his work,
Filled my stockings with kitty treats; then turned with a jerk,
And laying a talon aside of his nose,
After giving a nod, out the cat door he goes;
He sprang to his cat box, to his team gave “MEOW!”
And away they all flew, like the wind they did howl.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“MEOWY CAT-MAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!”

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‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all I could hear
Was my party guests screaming, “We’ve run out of beer!”
I laughed for a moment, said, “They’re pulling my leg,”
For I had just tapped a half-barrel keg.

“No, really, we’re out!” someone shrieked out of fright.
And the crowd grew more restless, surely there would be a fight.
“Now relax,” I said calmly “I’ve got plenty more brew.”
“I’ve got Coors in the pantry, and Schlitz in the loo.”

But my pantry was bare, and my fridge empty, too,
Gone, too was the six-pack I kept in the loo.
My pulse quickly rose and my heart sank with fear
For what kind of people could drink that much beer?

I looked at my guests; some invited, some not.
And I smelled the unmistakable sweet smell of pot.
Then I saw two girls giggle with glassy-eyed grins.
There was no mistaking: It was the Bush Twins.

They had drank all my beer and smoked all my stash.
Now I was lamenting my Christmas Eve bash.
The girls were shot-gunning the last can of Bud,
When up on the roof I heard a great THUD!

Then down from the chimney came a jolly fat dude.
He said, “Ran out of beer? Aw, man that’s just rude.
“Lucky for you, you’ve been a good boy.
“So I will provide you with great Christmas joy.”

And out of his sack he proceeded to bring
cases of beer (Oh, it made my heart sing).
More Bud and more Coors, even Michelob Light
More Killian’s and Beck’s; what a wonderful sight!

My guests started cheering, the Bush girls did flips.
Even the secret service were whetting their lips.
The Kennedy’s came by; John Daly did, too.
The Spirit of Christmas was sure coming through.

I looked out my window and spotted St. Nick
Chugging a pitcher, and chugging it quick!
And I heard him exclaim as he flew fast away,
“Drink, but don’t drive” as he crashed his new sleigh.

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‘Twas the night before Christmas
when all through the house
I searched for the tools
to hand to my spouse
Instructions were studied
and we were inspired,
in hopes we could manage
“Some Assembly Required.”
The children were quiet (not asleep) in their beds,
while Dad and I faced the evening with dread:
a kitchen, two bikes, Barbie’s town house to boot!
And, thanks to Grandpa, a train with a toot!
We opened the boxes,
my heart skipped a beat- let no parts be missing
or parts incomplete!
Too late for last-minute returns or replacement;
if we can’t get it right, it goes in the basement!
When what to my worrying eyes should appear
but 50 sheets of directions, concise, but not clear,
With each part numbered and every slot named,
so if we failed, only we could be blamed.
More rapid than eagles the parts then fell out,
all over the carpet they were scattered about.
“Now bolt it! Now twist it! Attach it right there!
Slide on the seats, and staple the stair!
Hammer the shelves, and nail to the stand.”
“Honey,” said hubby, “you just glued my hand.”
And then in a twinkling, I knew for a fact
that all the toy dealers had indeed made a pact
to keep parents busy all Christmas Eve night
with “assembly required” till morning’s first light
We spoke not a word, but kept bent at our work,
till our eyes, they went bleary; our fingers all hurt.
The coffee went cold and the night, it wore thin
before we attached the last rod and last pin.
Then laying the tools away in the chest,
we fell into bed for a well-deserved rest.
But I said to my husband just before I passed out,
“This will be the best Christmas, without any doubt.
Tomorrow we’ll cheer, let the holiday ring,
and not have to run to the store for a thing!
We did it! We did it! The toys are all set
for the perfect, most perfect, Christmas, I bet!”
Then off to dreamland and sweet repose
I gratefull went, though I suppose
there’s something to say for those self-deluded-
I’d forgotten that BATTERIES are never included!

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Twas the night before Christmas, and God it was neat.
The kids were both gone, and my wife was in heat.
The doors were all bolted, the phone off the hook,
It was time for some nooky, by hook or by crook.
Momma in her teddy and I in the nude,
Had just hit the bedroom and reached for the lube.
When out on the lawn there arose such a cry,
That I lost my boner, and momma went dry.
Up to the window I sprang like an elf,
Tore back the shade while she played with herself.
The moon on the crest of the snowman we’d built,
Showed a broom up his ass, clean up to the hilt.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a rusty old sleigh and eight mangey reindeer.
With a fat little driver, half out of the sled,
A sock in his ear and a bra on his head.
Sure as I’m speaking, he was high as a kite,
And he yelled to his team, but it didn’t sound right.
Woa Shithead, woa Asshole, woa Stupid, woa Putz,
Either slow down this rig or I’ll cut off your nuts.
Look out for the lamp post, and don’t hit the tree,
Quit shaking the sleigh, ’cause I gotta go pee.
They cleared the old lamp post, the tree got a rub,
Just as Santa leaned out and threw up on my shrub.
And then from the roof we heard such a clatter,
As each little reindeer now emptied his bladder.
I was donning my jockies, to cover my ass,
When down the chimney Santa came with a crash.
His suit was all smelly with perfume galore,
He looked like a bum and he smelled like a whore.
“That was some brothel,” he said with a smile,
“The reindeer are pooped, and I’ll just stay awhile”
He walked to the kitchen for himself poured a drink,
Then whipped out his pecker and pissed in the sink.
I started to laugh, my wife smiled with glee,
The old boy was hung nearly down to his knee.
Back in the den, Santa reached in his sack,
But his toys were all gone, and some new things were packed.
The first thing he found was a pair of false tits,
The next was a handgun with a penis that spits.
A box filled with condoms was Santa’s next find,
And six pair of panties, the edible kind.
A bra without nipples, a penis extension,
And several more things I shouldn’t even mention.
A fuck ring, a G-string, and all types of oil,
And a dildo so long that it lay in a coil.
“This stuff ain’t for kids, Mrs. Santa will shit,
So I’ll leave ’em here, and then I’ll just split.”
He filled every stocking and then took his leave,
With one tiny butt plug stuck under his sleeve.
He sprang to his sleigh, but his feet were like lead,
Thus he fell on his ass and broke wind instead.
In time he was seated, took reigns of his hitch,
Saying, “Take me home, Rudolf. This night’s been a bitch!”
The sleigh was near gone when we heard Santa shout,
“The best thing about pussy is you can’t wear it out!!”